


Long Way Home

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22255531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: "Are you lost, little soul?"
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Long Way Home

A thin, sharp reed dips into a black pool.

There is some haste in the movement; the night is hot, the wind warm, and ink dries quickly on papyrus. There is an urgency to the hieroglyphs that is unseemly, given their content. The symbols flow in hurried waves: here is a man-headed hawk, the _ba_ , the mobility of a soul after death. Here is the _ka_ , the doppelganger, the hungry spirit. Here is the _akh_ , the living mind.

The hand shakes. The ink blots. But the truths are committed: they are no longer superstition or malady. Science is always the murderer of magic.

The author looks up from his work. Sweat beads across his forehead. Around his neck hangs a protective ankh. Copper bands cinch his wrists and ankles. He knows what little defence these trinkets will be, should those who reside in the House of Death be angered. He knows, also, that there is no more fortuitous day to complete his work, to record his lifetime of knowledge. The gate between worlds is shut, the denizens sated and sleeping.

High above, the mother-moon soaked in blood, reddened by the House’s feast. The eclipse will not last long.

He swallows and bends to his papyrus once again. He tries not to think of the price to be paid.

In the shade of one great limestone paw, something watches him. Slitted yellow eyes peek from the darkness. It does not know the man, nor does it know the great creature in whose spiritual shadow it resides. It knows that it should be somewhere - and that somewhere is not here.

Yet it watches on. Spellbound in every sense of the word.

 _Little soul,_ sighs the sphinx, crying dust from one half-cracked eye. _Are you lost, little soul?_

Yes. But it cannot answer. It is not there to do so. The connection to this moment, this time, is less than fleeting, more fragile than a half-dream and lost entirely upon waking. There was a city like this, along the banks a lush river. There was a great Pharoah, anointed with red, blessed by the gods. There was a reason-

No. The reason is gone.

And so are we.

* * *

A goose-feather quill scratches on parchment.

Mortality grips the thoughts in a vice. These are the later years, the last years, and in this treatise perhaps some measure of longevity may be obtained. Reputation and public opinion are no longer the barriers they once were for the itinerant physician - he cares not for the little words of little men. Ignorance and associated scandal would bar him from the craft, and yet his great book of surgery now births in presses from Augarsburg to Farankurt.

A triumph. A _triumph_. And this will be the crown of his success, this production. His hand is firm. The parchment laps up ink.

What sets this upstairs inn room apart from all the others the author has inhabited over the years? The standing mirror is dusty, but it shows the proper reflection. The desk is laid with expensive work-tools and chapbooks - these are familiar, too. Winter clouds the window with soft snow. A bright fire chuckles in the hearth. The shadows dance.

Slitted yellow burns behind the flames.

What makes this important? The man hunches over his writing, but a few passages can be seen. One must take the putrefied sperm of a hanged man… kept for the passage of forty days in the womb of a beast… fed by the arcanum of human blood… _homunculus_...

A knock on the door: firm and polite as a landlord seeking rent. A reaper. A patron whose sponsorship has borne fruit.

The man at the desk speaks in his harsh language. The door opens, creaking on rusted hinges.

Something that is not a man enters the room. Or - something that will, one day, no longer be a man, though at this point he still at least wears the bronzed skin. Like a hunt-trophy. Like a badge of office. Perhaps he takes it off to sleep at night, or to bathe, so as not to sully it. In his eyes burn the light of dying stars, great novas of knowledge, and they are fixed on the desk and the parchment.

The newcomer’s voice is a duality. It speaks in the mangled language of the now, and also in a way that is achingly known to the hidden thing in the hearth whose own words are better expressed in cuneiform.

‘This is only the first element,’ he says. ‘Crude, but workable. Flawed, but inspired. This is a foundation we can use.’

The writer smiles, grateful for the kind words. It has been a long time since he was honestly appreciated by academia. The patients, the sick, the dying - their need, their thanks is something born out of desperation and despair, and while it is good, it feels unnatural. The writer heals because he can. He writes to pass on his knowledge so that his life of study may go forward to heal more in the future. To make humanity well again.

He does not know what his patron intends. If he did, he would scream. He would tear the parchment with his hands, he would throw the scraps into the fire and leap through his window.

But the writer does not know. So he only smiles.

The golden-eyed man turns his gaze to the hearth. It is piercing in the way a spear is piercing, in the way radiation cuts a searing, sterilising path through flesh. It is the sight of a surgeon who can see only the cancer he will kill, not the suffering of the host. There is a word for what he is, a word whispered behind the curtain of the universe, a word that sets gods and kings a-tremble. We dare not speak it. We dare not.

‘Little soul,’ he says. ‘Are you lost, little soul?’

Yes. But it cannot answer, for to answer would be to invite instant extinguishment, and it must remain. It must endure. It is hard to stay silent, to stay coherent under those stormy eyes, but there is worse to come. There is a sky lit by judgement. There is an army that can trace a twisted ancestry to this room, this moment. There are homunculus in the field, each a tiny golden spark-

No. The fire is gone.

And so are we.

* * *

A Remington typewriter, each key-press provoking a mechanical clatter.

It serves as a counterpoint to the chirruping of cicadas, to the hammering of works down at the docks. The room is bare of any furnishing, save a bed, a desk and a chair. The walls are cracked white, the paint peeling away like sunburn to expose red brick. A single window that won’t close. The oppressive heat that night does nothing to stifle. A broken man, surrounded by broken things.

Words bleed onto paper. The type is misaligned - the text slanted, the print off, like the notebook of a madman. That is what it is, after all. The technology is only a little more advanced.

The writer has not slept in days. His clothes reek with body odour and sickness, his hair presses thickly to his scalp. Letters have piled up under the door. He does not notice. Shredded paper lies about his feet like eggshells, the chick-embryo ideas extracted, the rest discarded. The work takes on the aspect of ritual.

He caught the briefest glimpse of the world beyond. He saw a reflection in still water of something _wrong_. He will spend the rest of his life trying to make sense of it. It is not a tragedy that he will fail - knowing would be so much worse.

Just ask the thing lurking in a cobwebbed corner, yellow eyes a-glimmer.

Tap-tap-tap go the keys. ‘...were not altogether composed of flesh and blood. They had shape… but that shape was not made of matter…’ That is the truth, however unpleasant. Behind the glamour - behind the imposed body, behind the dream-ideal, behind the thought-form - what is a body but a gimlet for the soul?

The author is plagued - he believes the dark-skinned men on the street watch him, and he cannot comprehend why. He believes the sailors from far-off shores have been rendered inhuman by their experiences, their shoulder-rubbing with the dark places of the world. For the author, everything beyond the confines of his single apartment down by the docks is a terrifying place. The journey here, alone, cost him. The theft that will follow this moment will affirm his deepest prejudices.

They are coming up the steps now. He cannot hear them. They are coming. They are coming.

The little soul cries out. It did not speak to the priest in the desert. It did not speak to the creature of bronze and gold. What compels it to do so now? Is it the wretched state of the man - that it would spare him further harm? No - mercy is not its nature. Is it the typewriter-wisdom that the soul wishes to protect, then? The words? The knowledge? A glimpse of, what? Home?

Home?

They are coming. They are coming. THEY ARE COMING. The harriers. The brigands. The defilers. The book-burners. The wild-eyed barbarians. The wolves. The _wolves_. Oh, the crimson king has laid down his sword and expects us to fall alongside him. He bargained an eye for the wisdom to save his sons. Why, now, does he damn them? Why did he send away the spirits?

It matters little. The little soul is no longer lost. It can find its way back, to where it is supposed to be.

The wolves are here.

And so, now, are we.

* * *

**A NOTE**

This is where I wanted to leave the story. I like the way it finishes, here: we know what our little soul is, where it came from, and where it's going. I like the idea of leaving it up to the reader's imagination what happens from here on out - it's up to you whether what awaits is a 'happy ending' or not.

But the more I thought on it, I don't think that's enough to be _satisfying_. People generally want to know where things end up. So while it's not as nice and neat as the above, I sketched out a quick 'proper' ending below.

So: if you're happy with how it went, you can stop reading! If you wanted a little more - with no guarantees that it'll satisfy you - continue on. Turns out we _can_ have our cake and eat it too, what with the wonders of modern technology.

* * *

So few understood the Raptora. That always struck Amanas as strange, somehow.

Truthfully, he hadn’t understood it himself, even after searching for the answer - there were a million books in the Raptora cult’s pyramid, and even a Space Marine’s infallible recall would be tested by them. It hadn’t pleased him at the time, that he couldn’t understand his own discipline. He had put it out of his mind, wondering how a centre of learning could still let him leave ignorant.

That had been a long time ago.

He wasn’t so far from the plaza now. He could always go back, see if Master Teram still stacked shelves by hand...

He laughs. The sound dies beneath screams and bolter fire. Blood leaks from the corners of his mouth. His vision is tinged by darkness at the edges. This is not a horrid thing, for it means he does not have to look at the destruction of his home. The mutilated bodies of Spireguard and battle-brother alike. The flames that overtop the grand marble edifices of Tizca. The slaughter. The wolves, two-legged and four, that prowl just beyond.

They can come no closer.

Between them and the line of retreat is a barrier of burning light. A warrior adorned with runes and relics had tried to bull through the psychic barrier at once - his twisted corpse and smouldering plate reminded his fellows not to attempt the same feat. They contented themselves with hurling bolt-shells and curses at the shield and the witch who powered it.

They believed it would not take long for the maleficarum to wane. Perhaps this would have been true for other opponents they had faced during the Crusade. Hedge-magic and dark cults mumbling words they didn’t understand. They’d fade quickly under pressure.

Like most, they didn’t understand the Raptora.

They didn’t understand that Amanas’ vox was tuned into every squad channel in the vicinity. They didn’t understand that while he held them back here, at this juncture, he also fought in the hearts and minds of his brothers across the city. They did not hear his words of encouragement to a Spireguard platoon in a fighting retreat through the eastern markets. They did not hear his brisk reprimand of a novitiate cadre eager to push forward rather than hold their assigned sector.

They do not know how each channel that goes silent strengthens his resolve, reaffirms the barrier. The Wolves are focused on one thing alone. They will wait here until the end of days if they must. That is their strength - and their weakness. They are only here, while Amanas is everywhere.

He laughs, again, and they roar insults back, thinking he mocks them.

No. The end is coming. Amanas gives his joy of life one final voice, because this is the final chance. He can feel them coming. _Them._ The red plumes. The golden armour. They are few. They have always been few. And he is not a captain or a master. Not important. Not a priority. But by whatever lists they keep, whatever battlefield objectives they must obtain - his time has come.

The Talons of the Emperor. The golden spear and its shadowed partner: the Anathema Psykana. They will walk through his wards as if they did not exist.

If Amanas had his companion, his tutelary, perhaps more could have been done. But the spirit is fled, perhaps sensing the coming battle, perhaps banished by Magnus, or the Wolf King, or the pariahs. But that’s Raptora, too - making the most of what you have. Every second you hold could be a lifetime for someone else.

He quiets the vox. He does not want his brothers to hear him die.

The Custodians are visible now. The leader of the battle squad is a full captain himself, his names - litanies of triumph - worked in filigree scrollwork across his armour. There is real hate in the eyes beneath the helm. Amanas can _feel_ it. It makes the baying of Russ’ pups seem mild by comparison. The Wolves are here to punish the wayward, but they have been preparing for this for years. But for the Custodes, it is deeply personal. Magnus has betrayed his father. The Emperor has been slighted.

No slight upon Him may stand. Nothing may contravene His grand design. The Crimson King will answer these crimes with his life.

Beside the captain is a woman in silvered black, a knight of oblivion, a shield-breaker. Amanas is surprised: they brought a specialist for the task. Either they had them to spare, or he’s done more good than he believed. Well. A pleasant thought to take to the grave.

She reaches out to the barrier, and-

-flinches, as it bursts into flame.

Beside the weary son of Magnus has appeared a great, nine-tailed beast of fire, crouched low, snarling as power thrums through the kine shield. Its feline head butts the Marine’s battered helm, warmth spreading to the skin beneath. Slitted yellow eyes fix the forces beyond.

‘ **Home,** ’ it murmurs. ‘ **Home at last.** ’


End file.
